Memoirs of Before and After
by Consulting-Writer-in-Training
Summary: A memoir of the 3 years before and the single-life changing moment after. {Post-Reichenbach}


One Thousand Eighty-Two Days Before:

It's been 14 days, 336 hours, 20,160 minutes and 1,209,600 seconds since Sherlock's fall, but despite the numerous seconds and minutes that have passed by it still feels as if one moment ago you were looking at his bloody, broken, body to check for a pulse only to find none. You can still hear his voice clearly in your mind as if he's standing right next to you whispering in your ear over and over again.

_ "Goodbye John."_

Sitting upright in bed you're covered in sweat and gasping for breath; the nightmares are back. Only this time the dreams aren't about the war and Sherlock isn't here to offer comfort in the best way he can think of. This only makes the nightmares all the more terrifying, more real. You sit at the edge of your bed and rub your leg, which is starting to pain you more and more as the days progress. Damn my leg!

Why you bother trying to get some sleep you don't really know, possibly hoping the results will be different or that one day you'll wake up and he'll be here. You're wrong on both accounts. You look at the clock and the time, 3:24 am, stares back at you. You managed to sleep an hour longer than usual; your therapist might consider that progress. Standing you do a small stretch and head downstairs, no point trying to get back to sleep now. As you walk you notice the small limp in your step and sigh internally. You never did like using that cane.

Around 7 am you leave for work. There are faint dark circles under your eyes but when you spent the last 4 hours staring absent-mindedly at the pages of a book and listening to the mechanisms of your flat without ever falling asleep one should expect nothing less. When you walk through the doors people stare and drift off in different directions as you walk past them.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson."

You say nothing instead opting for a barely visible head nod, a sign of recognition, before walking into your office and shutting the door behind you. Most people when they are sad find themselves trying to become absorbed by a single task to make themselves forget about everything else. You are not most people. You cannot bring yourself to be like that it reminds you too much of him. The work is hardly similar and the motive completely different and yet the very thought of being absorbed in your job or a hobby sets you on edge for it is a trait you would ascribe to him.

There is a knock on the door and you know who is there even before she speaks.

"John, can I come in?"

Would she have listened if you said no? That is a question for which the answer is unknown because you push aside the papers in front of you and tell her what she wants to hear.

"Yeah, come on in."

Sarah sticks her head in before fully opening the door and walking inside. You liked Sarah at one point or maybe you think you did the lines have blurred by this point. She was, is, pretty and she's smart too. She's kind enough and interesting enough despite how generic her name may be. Are these not the typical qualities one looks for in a partner? Perhaps, but is it enough? No.

You know what she'll say before she says it or at least you have general idea; they all say something similar.

"You didn't have to come into work today, John. It's really not a problem."

Not exactly word for word but you were close. You're not over doing it simply what is required. Never staying late or leaving early as far as your work is concerned nothing's changed.

"I don't mind, I was falling behind."

When Sherlock was alive things were different. You would leave early, stay late, or fall asleep at the desk; all so that you could help Sherlock with his cases, which in a way was working. There were requirements your job asked you to meet and you struggled but you met them. Now you meet them with ease, why would she wish to change that.

"John…"

"Sara."

Stern, unwavering, you must hold your ground.

"I'm fine."

"But-"

"Doing well."

"You-"

"Really, okay."

You can go on forever; she will crack before you do.

"Well...okay, continue on then."

It was a decent effort and she'll be back again maybe you'll give in one day. You give a small smile, encouragement, and turn back to reviewing someone's medical records.

"And John-"

"Yes?"

"I really am...sorry for your loss."

A nod and then back to work, she closes the door behind her. "Why do people apologize for things they have not done or are in any way responsible for?"You didn't have the answer to his question then and you don't have an answer now.

Eight hours later you return home, though the feeling of home is long gone. You take a moment to take a look around the flat but nothing's changed, it never does. It's still as messy as he left it. There are papers scattered everywhere, bullet holes, and tiny indents in the wall from when things have been thrown against it. In the eyes of others it was a pathetic mess but to him it was merely a visualization of how his mind works and so for you the mess was beautiful, troublesome, but beautiful.

Mrs. Hudson suggested on multiple occasions that you start cleaning, she even offered to help, but you declined. The sad truth is that cleaning means erasing. If Sherlock's stuff goes he goes with it and you aren't ready to let go, not yet.

There is the matter of dinner, it's been days since you went food shopping so you can only hope there is something edible you can pull together. When you open the fridge, it's been re-filled, the works of Mrs. Hudson no doubt. The calendar on the fridge has a circle around the date; he was supposed to eat today. That's one battle you don't have to fight today. Watching him push the food around on his plate like a child while you look on disapprovingly eventually banters exchanged but he eats it the end. It was so tiring and not something you looked forward to but you'd rather have him here "driving you crazy" than not here at all.

You half heartedly make a sandwich, hardly a good dinner but it'll do. A light dinner and watching whatever is on the telly this evening; you've seen this scenario before. For the past two weeks it's been this dull never ending cycle: Waking up, going to work, eating dinner, miscellaneous activities, sleeping, nightmares, waking up. It seems like Sherlock was the most interesting part of your life and without him you must go back to the humdrum life you had before.

Around 11 you decide to go to bed. There is only so much you can take while you're awake.

It has been 14 days, 356 hours, 21,360 minutes, and 1,281,600 seconds since Sherlock's fall and you aren't sure how much longer you can go on like this.


End file.
